Charlie #2
“There we go,” Nikolaus breathes, like he’s found something he was looking for. “I just want you to feel good, sweetheart. You were hurting. You did so well through that, and I want you to feel good now. That’s all this is.”
That’s all this is.
I should laugh. I should say something cutting and adult, except his hand is on me through my sweatpants and his fingers are in my mouth, and the floaty place has once again swallowed the part of me that knows how to do any of those things.
So instead I just lie there and let him.
His palm presses against me, and the sound I make is so small and embarrassing that I want to dissolve into the leather seat and never be found. My hips make a tiny, treacherous movement I didn’t authorize, and Nikolaus exhales above me like I’ve given him something precious.
“Good boy,” he breathes, barely audible. “That’s it. Just let me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut again and grip his shirt tighter.
The thing is, it feels good.
I hate that it feels good. I hate that my body doesn’t seem to understand the difference between someone who is keeping me and someone who is taking care of me, or maybe it understands and simply doesn’t care, which is worse.
Every slow press of his hand sends warmth spreading up through my stomach, and I suck harder on his fingers without meaning to, which makes Nikolaus’s eyes heat.
I check on Constantine again, but he hasn’t moved. He looks focused on whatever it is he’s looking at on his phone.
His hand moves again, pressing firmer, and the warmth that had been spreading through me becomes urgent. My hips make another little, aborted motion, and I bite down gently on his fingers to keep from making noise, which only makes him exhale slowly above me like I’ve done something exactly right.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, barely a breath. “Let Daddy rub your special place. So good. You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart. So quiet. Such a good boy.”
The praise lands in the floaty place and blooms there, warm and stupid and chemical, and my fingers twist tighter in his shirt as the pressure builds.
Then his hand stills, and I make a soft, confused sound around his fingers.
But I don’t have long to mourn, because he reaches up, into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and draws out a square of cloth.
I think it’s a handkerchief, but it’s not the kind of old man handkerchief my granddad had—it’s silk, deep blue, crisp with starch, the kind of uselessly nice thing that people like Nikolaus probably carry to show off that they can.
He lays it in his palm, then slides his hand back down, this time not stopping at the waistband of my sweats.
He presses with two fingers at my taint, and I jerk, unable to help it.
Another helpless noise escapes me, and I suck desperately on his other hand to muffle it.
My mouth fills with the taste of his skin and a faint ghost of cologne, and it’s so distracting, so embarrassing, so completely overwhelming that I almost miss the next thing.
Nikolaus’s voice drops so low it’s just for me.
“I know it’s a lot, sweetheart. I know you’re scared.
But you’re doing so, so good.” He rubs me, just a little, as if he’s testing the shape of me through the fabric, mapping my body for some secret plan.
“Let Daddy take care of you,” he whispers, and then he’s not massaging anymore, he’s actually stroking me through the thin barrier of my sweats, and I can’t get away, can’t breathe, can’t think.
I should be screaming.
I should be shoving him off.
But all I can do is whimper and bite his fingers and try not to let any of the noises rise above the hum of the plane.
His eyes are on mine the entire time, and I know, I know, I know what this is—he’s making me complicit, and I am letting him.
He moves his thumb, circles right at the head, and my back arches off his lap for a second before I collapse against him. My brain is blank and my body is hot and I’m shaking, really shaking, and I know I’m going to come because there is no way not to.
He then pulls my waistband out just enough to slip his hand inside, wrapping that fancy silk fabric over the leaking head of my dick.
I try to breathe, but my chest feels clogged with cement. My head spins. I sink my teeth into the knuckle of his forefinger, not hard enough to hurt him but enough to ground me.
Nikolaus leans in, and the pressure of his lips at the crown of my head is so gentle it barely registers. “It’s all right, baby. Just let go. Come for Daddy.”
The words hit like a match to kerosene—sudden heat, a flare of shame, and need so strong it makes me tremble.
My legs kick once, reflexively, then clamp together as the silk square glides over the head of my cock.
The softness is so much—it’s too much. I can’t even process it, I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe I want it, I can’t believe I’m letting him—
But then my body makes the decision for me.
I shudder, jaw unhinging, and the sound I make is so tiny and pitiful it humiliates me even as I ride the shock of it.
Nikolaus does not stop. He works the square around the head, never hurried, never rough, just smooth and controlled, like he could keep milking me forever if he wanted to.
My brain goes entirely white as my hips twitch and breath stutters out of me in a gasp. All the tension I’d been clutching rushes out at once, and I feel it—wet and hot—spill into the fabric.
Nikolaus holds me steady, stroking me through it, his palm over my stomach, the silk keeping any mess off his hand. The first aftershocks crest, then ebb, leaving me limp and dazed, breath hiccupping in and out of my lungs. I can’t move. My eyes go glassy.
Nikolaus’s hand moves up from my waistband, and he holds the balled silk between two fingers, tucks it back into his pocket like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m still latched on his fingers, and he lets me keep them, stroking the side of my face with his other hand.
The praise in his voice is crushed velvet as he croons, “That’s my good boy. That’s my perfect little baby.”
The world condenses to the dark wool of his suit beneath my cheek, the slow thump of his heart, the way his thumb strokes my jaw in an endless, soothing loop.
I’m so shocked by what just happened that it’s hard to think anything at all—my whole body floods with relief and shame intermixed, so perfectly balanced that neither gets the upper hand.
I’m empty.
I’m full.
My hips finally go loose. I try to breathe, but it comes in slow, shaky pulls. Nikolaus’s hand slides up to my hairline. He wipes away the tears I didn’t realize had fallen with a strong, sure touch.
He murmurs, “Do you want some water, sweetheart?” like nothing out of the ordinary just happened.
I nod, or maybe just let my head flop. I can’t imagine ever moving again by choice.
He gently extracts his fingers from my mouth, a thin trail of spit clinging for a second before he wipes it up with his thumb.
He then leans across the seat to a built-in side table and opens a bottle. The water is cold and mineral-rich, with a twist of lemon that almost shocks me. Nikolaus brings it to my lips instead of handing me the bottle and tips just enough for a mouthful.
I swallow, spill a little down my chin, and feel the exhausted tremor in my arms as I wipe at it with my sleeve.
After a few more sips, Nikolaus seems satisfied and sets the water down, saying, “Perfect. Now, why don’t you try to nap? There are a few more hours before we land.”
And my eyes slip closed.